


web slingin’ spiderling

by hydroxy



Series: swingin' like i'm bruce lee [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Comic Book Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mark Lee (NCT) is Whipped, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identity, spidermark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydroxy/pseuds/hydroxy
Summary: On Mark Lee’s Junior Year To-Do List:1. Hide his identity from hisveryperceptive best friend.2. Deal with the crush he’d been harboring towards said best friend since the day they’d met,3. Somehow muster up the courage to ask his best friend to prom, and,4. Make it to prom on time.(In which Mark is Earth-082’s very own Spiderman and Donghyuck is too smart for his own good.)
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Series: swingin' like i'm bruce lee [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140944
Comments: 23
Kudos: 99





	1. Mark Lee, the Spectacular Spider-Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodness gracious, she's finally here! just a quick note: i'll be writing this story as we go. therefore, you can expect inconsistent updates and a semi-unpredictable storyline. i hope you enjoy; i'm so excited to show you what i have in store for our favorite spiderman!
> 
>  **note:** mark and 00'line are in the same grade!

Life used to be simple.

Mark used to wake up at the buttcrack of dawn and sluggishly drag himself out of his very warm bed to brush his teeth, half-asleep, while smoothing down his bird’s nest of hair with a handful of freezing cold water, the sound of early risers honking their horns on the nearby freeway blaring through his window.

He used to scarf down a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats—the one with granola crumble and what looked like remnants of roasted almonds—and sling his tattered black Jansport backpack over his shoulder, kiss his mom goodbye, and head off to the bus stop on the corner of his block, waving hello to the friendly old lady—she’d asked him to call her Aunt Mae, short for Margaret—that would occasionally drop by to gift him whatever baked creations she’d made that week. Last week, she’d made a delicious peach crumble that he’d devoured within a day and still couldn’t stop thinking about.

And then, he used to spend a whole seven hours, five days a week, barely listening to his teachers drone on about whatever important topic they’d decided to focus on that day, often falling asleep in the back of the classroom before being nudged awake in time to save his own ass whenever he was called to answer a question. He’d made a deal with his elbow-mates back then: free desserts, thanks to Aunt Mae, if they woke him up before he got caught. He’d only been chastised once by a naggy Mr. Kim, who’d shot him with his water gun from where he sat behind his desk, a perfect squirt to the eyelid to jolt the boy awake to the sound of his classmates’ boisterous laughter. He didn’t talk to Jeno for a whole week after that.

He would eat lunch with the usual gang: Donghyuck, his very best friend ( _of all time,_ Donghyuck likes to add) that he’d met in the second grade, when the younger had transferred to their school and had tackled Mark to the ground during a ‘friendly’ game of freeze tag; Jeno, track star and soccer player extraordinaire with a strange affinity for stray cats despite his allergy to them; Jaemin, the community service geek with an alarming caffeine addiction who was somehow president of _both_ UNICEF and Key Club; and Renjun, future astrophysics major with a knack for any hard science subject and a love for traditional art. 

They’d sit together at their designated spot under the wooden canopies lining the exterior of the school library, a round picnic table shaded by an old beach tent Jeno had scored on his way home from school one day. Their usual lunches consisted of chicken sandwiches and tangerine fruit cups and whispered discussions about the latest gossip circulating throughout the school hallways.

But _now_ — Now, life was a bit more complicated.

If you’d caught Mark on a good day, perhaps on an afternoon where he wasn’t busy bugging police radio transmitters or swinging about Downtown, he’d probably tell you about how he’d found a bug bite on the back of his hand one morning, about two years ago—which had grown into a _huge,_ scary mass that freaked him out to the point that he’d thought he going through some kind of weird second puberty—that just _disappeared_ all of a sudden, as quickly as it had come. _Poof._

He’d then probably tell you about how he accidentally glued his palms to his face one morning shortly after the Freaky Hand Incident, after he’d shut off the alarm blaring into his ears and then slapped his hands to his cheeks to wake himself up. At first, he’d thought that maybe it was his younger sister playing some kind of sick prank on him and locked himself in the bathroom to run warm water over the junction of skin—as if warm water would’ve worked to dissolve _super glue—_ but after about twenty minutes of tugging, tugging, _tugging_ and then taking a closer look into the mirror, he’d realized that there was nothing on his hands at all. 

He’d spare you the details—he doesn’t really know all too much about the physics of intersurface attraction himself. Long story short, Mark had suddenly grown about a few million tiny, almost microscopic little hairs on the tips of his fingers, like peach fuzz, if you’d looked closely. And after doing a little bit of research (re-reading the few chapters he’d skipped from his General Biology textbook, which actually came in handy a few weeks later for a pop quiz), he realized that that _sticky_ feeling, the one he’d inadvertently experienced that one morning, was due to something fancily termed _van der Waals force_ , some kind of scientific magic that allowed him to stick to any surface as if he was a permanent magnet.

So, as the story goes, Mark starts his junior year at Midtown High School with an out-of-the-blue freakish ability to stick to walls, telephone poles, _ceilings_ —he’ll save that story for another time—and spends the first few days with his new abilities hiding in the bathroom during lunch to avoid his best friend, which was, to put it lightly, almost impossible.

Mark would run out of his classrooms as soon as the bell rang and make a mad dash across campus to spend his thirty minutes of lunch alone, squatted over the A-Building toilet, bathroom door locked shut for the entirety of his break no matter how many times students banged on it from the other side. He’d spray some webbing over the lock and door frame for good measure, since there was one incident where some football jock had been called over to slam into the door with his shoulder and had almost knocked the whole building over (or at least, that’s what it’d felt like), then nibble on his (usually) ham and cheese sandwich with one hand while his other hand gripped his cell phone, where he’d watch videos of spiders knitting their webs.

Yes, he’d go on YouTube, type in _‘spiders making webs,’_ then spend the whole thirty minutes of his lunch watching spiders poop webs out of their butts. 

Donghyuck’s worried texts eventually evolved into annoyed voicemails to pester him about where the hell he kept hiding, and Mark would have to lie, obviously, about his predicament, because _how_ do you break it to your best friend of nine years that you’ve suddenly morphed into some kind of human-spider hybrid without scaring him away forever?

Mark quickly learned that the only way to get Donghyuck off his case was to say something along the lines of _“food poisoning”_ and _“explosive diarrhea,”_ which, trust him, embarrassed him to no end, but Donghyuck was just so adamant about spending every moment of his time with Mark that he _had_ to come up with some kind of bogus, disgusting excuse (but honestly, knowing Donghyuck, he probably would’ve been okay with holding Mark’s hand through the stomach problems if it meant that he’d be able to make fun of him about it afterwards. They were just that close). 

Donghyuck spends a week of lunches moping on Jeno’s shoulder and afternoons insistently knocking on Mark’s front door, his mother having to pitifully shoo the younger away on his behalf while he pretends to vomit in the upstairs toilet. Despite the guilt eating away at his insides like termites feasting on premium redwood, Mark didn’t want to—couldn’t—admit to Donghyuck about what he’d suddenly become. Yes, they’d been best friends for almost a whole decade and had promised to never leave each other no matter what, but something nagged at Mark from the deepest crevices of his brain and told him that _this_ would be the very straw that would break the camel’s back.

So Mark kept his mouth shut and gave himself one week to get a hold of his senses and control his abilities (he didn’t think he’d be able to hold out for any longer, seeing that Donghyuck looked like he’d attempt to bust down his door at any given moment after about three days of on-campus radio silence). He’d sneak out once he heard his mother snoring down the hall, once the streetlights had been on for a few hours and the night had turned ink black, and swing from tree to tree, lamppost to lamppost, until he’d make it downtown, where he could practice scaling skyscrapers and apply all those physics theories about angular momentum he’d been (for once in his life) attentively noting down during class.

It takes him a few hours to get a hang of shooting webs on command, the first night he’d attempted to do so. It’d kind of freaked him out, to be honest, seeing that his wrists didn’t _look_ like they had any holes in them, but were still somehow able to produce sticky, silky fibers with the force of a nuclear explosion and the strength of hardened steel. Mark quickly came to accept it as it was, because there was no way anyone on this earth would be able to explain to him the science behind all _that._

It didn’t hurt, not really. It was a kind of little zing—a tingle, almost—with every burst of silk (or whatever it was) that erupted with every snap of his wrist, the string immediately hardening into strong rope that he’d use to swing from building to building. The webs seemed to disappear into thin air if he willed it to, he’d noticed, after suddenly realizing that there’d be obvious evidence of a ginormous spider ravaging downtown if he didn’t go back to clean up after himself. But if he wanted to, let’s say, stick a fallen leaf back onto a tree, the web would stay there, a glob of semi-opaque fibrous glue that would only be noticed if someone took a long, hard look at it.

The next few nights consisted of the same routine—Mark would come home, shoot Donghyuck another apologetic text and a few funny memes he’d found that day to cheer the younger up, attempt to finish his growing mound of homework assignments, then wait for night to fall, the cool breeze welcoming him every evening whenever he’d finally crack open his bedroom window to slither out without a sound. Mark gets better at flying, more confident in his ability to land on his feet every single time, and even tries his hand at talking to a spider he’d found hanging out on a streetlamp one evening—sadly, he’d quickly realized, just because you can suddenly shoot webs and stick to walls doesn’t mean you’ll be able to have conversations with spiders. A very disappointing turn of events.

One Saturday evening, nearing the end of his week-long not-really-but-kind-of breakup with his best friend, Mark stumbles upon an old lady depositing some cash into the ATM by the Starbucks near the bus station and for _some reason,_ decides to watch her from where he’s perched atop the huge Fisk tower looming over the street. If you’d asked him why his brain had suddenly started blaring like a fire engine when he’d laid eyes on her, Mark wouldn’t be able to tell you, but he’s definitely learned to control the sound by now, turning the volume down a couple of notches to help with the ringing in his ears after it's passed.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, not at first. She’d slowly pulled her wallet out from the front pocket of her purse, a plum-colored alligator-skin handbag that matched the mauve scarf she’d tied around her neck, then opened the wallet to retrieve her bank card to insert into the ATM machine. Then Mark noticed him—a shadowed figure slowly inching towards her from the cramped alleyway about twenty feet away, hand in his front pocket. Mark usually isn’t one to jump to conclusions—he’s always the one that mediates the many petty arguments between Donghyuck and Renjun—but he’d suddenly felt something pricking at the nape of his neck and just, well, _jumped._

He’d leaped without really thinking, one arm coming up to swing towards the building ahead and the other coming out in front of him, and with a snap of his wrist, had choked the head of the gun in the man’s hand, the heavy weapon falling with a _clunk_ onto the gritty cement a few feet away from where the woman stood. The man had looked at him in horror, his hazel green eyes widened from behind his black ski mask, and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction—but not fast enough, Mark had assured, a ball of silken fibers hurled at the man’s ankles to send him tumbling down.

 _“Get away from me, you freak!”_ the man yelled when Mark began to approach him, his arms coming up to shield his face from the teenage boy who’d just foiled his attempt at a heinous crime. When Mark had lifted his arm to launch another flurry of webbing at the man’s face, he felt a sudden tug against his sleeve and turned around to see his neighbor, the nice old lady who’d make him strawberry pastries and milk bread, with eyes widened in dismay. “Mark—” 

“I–I can explain—” 

_“Mark,”_ she emphasized, the blaring of sirens nearing from around the corner, “you need to get out of here. _Now.”_

He’d stared at her with fear in his eyes, his life flashing in front of him like movie stills on a reel until she’d shaken him from his stupor with a steel grip and her lips pulled into a hard line, her gaze now determined, ablaze.

“Thank you,” she’d whispered, shooting him a wink and a kind grin before pushing him away towards the flickering streetlights. “It’ll be our little secret.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how are we feeling? [avenger's theme plays] thank you so much for reading! ♡
> 
> [twt](https://www.twitter.com/hyckfairy/) [cc](https://curiouscat.me/hyckfairy)  
> 


	2. Spiderman: Hero or Menace?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But with great power, Mark thinks, his eyes fixed on the cracks in the black cement of the road as he forces himself to come to terms with his new reality, comes great responsibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for waiting and for all the wonderful comments! i hope you enjoy this chapter ♡

Variations of _“Spider Mutant Saves 67-Year-Old Lady From Armed Robbery”_ blared across television screens, newspapers, and even Facebook timelines for a solid week after the incident. Everyone at school couldn’t stop talking about it—even his teachers, who always preached the importance of minimizing tardiness, spent a good five minutes at the beginning of every class gossiping about who this mystery spiderling could be. 

Pictures of Mark’s dark silhouette plastered across phone screens and even the front page of their school newspaper—how Donghyuck managed to snag those pictures and edit the final draft for printing on such short notice honestly scared Mark—followed him everywhere he went, accompanied by the onslaught of rumors that seemed to spiral out of control even more than they did the previous day, eventually snowballing into one resounding conclusion: _Spiderman_ is his name, and the jury’s still out on whether he’s a hero or a villain. But it wasn’t the media frenzy or the ridiculous guesses students would spew in the crowded school hallways that worried Mark. 

One person, an exchange student named Yukhei, if Mark remembered correctly, adamantly argued that this Spiderman figure was actually some capitalist overlord that crafted a superhero alter-ego to earn the trust of the citizens of their city before crushing it to the ground—Mark immediately fell into a laughing fit and hurriedly rushed off to join the gang at their usual table once he’d realized that everyone was staring at him. 

No, it was the one person Mark was most afraid of knowing the truth that now gave him night sweats and a faint, constant state of anxiety that nested itself in the back of his mind. Lee Donghyuck became a self-proclaimed Spiderman _superstan_ overnight, and it flustered Mark to no end.

It was one thing to have spent an entire week fending off concerned texts and dozens of missed calls from his best friends, back when Mark had first discovered his new abilities. Stomach flu was a good enough excuse for his purposes—Jeno couldn’t afford to get sick before an important track meet, and Jaemin, with his tendency to assume the role of the scientific informant whenever anything remotely related to physical ailments arose within their group, swore on his life to keep Donghyuck away from Mark for as long as it took for his safe recovery (Mark was pretty sure Donghyuck was more annoyed from Jaemin’s constant nagging about the importance of sanitation and hygiene than the fact that he couldn’t see Mark every day, though Donghyuck liked to insist otherwise).

Spending every waking moment with the gnawing fear that he’d be discovered, webs shooting out of his wrist and all, and ousted as inhuman—that was an entirely different kind of game, one that left Mark with a constant ringing in his ears from his sudden hypersensitivity to imminent dangers (it didn’t help that high school students weren’t the brightest when it came to handling scissors, go figure) and heart palpitations that refused to dissipate even in the dead of night. He hadn’t gone out to practice since that evening.

And with Donghyuck’s new obsession with this new facet of his identity, one that he’s certain would drive Donghyuck away from him forever if he really knew the whole truth, Mark finds it even harder to accept his new reality.

"But don't you think it's kind of strange? Sixteen years of my life on this planet and all of a sudden a _superhero_ shows up out of nowhere? What if that means something bad's going to happen?"

"N-no, I don't think so at all," Mark says with a nervous chuckle as he hastily swings his backpack over his shoulder, following Donghyuck out of the classroom, "b-but I mean, like—"

"You don't think it's strange?"

"Well, I guess I do, I don’t think that means he's a bad guy or anything—"

"I didn't say he's a bad guy, Mark. I'm saying that superheros only show up if _villains_ show up. Haven't you watched, I don't know, _any_ Marvel movie?"

"I mean, I've watched _The Dark Knight—"_

"That's a _DC_ film, Mark!" Donghyuck sighs in exasperation, his hands thrown into the air as he stops in the middle of the hallway and turns to stare Mark dead into the eyes. He lands a firm hand on Mark's shoulder with a slow, disappointed shake of his head. "You have so much to learn, young padawan."

"Okay, I know for a _fact_ that that's from Star Wars—"

"You're missing the whole point!"

"What'd you do this time, Mark?"

Jeno's teasing voice sneaks up from behind them as he swings an arm over Mark's shoulder, the three of them setting their things on the ground before plopping into their designated seating arrangements. Mark and Donghyuck always sit on the side closest to the library windows, with Jeno, Jaemin, and Renjun on the other side of the table (because after years of watching Donghyuck's catfights with either Renjun or Jaemin—or _both_ at the same time—turn into week-long silent streaks that often resulted in days of angsty tears and passive-aggressive text chains, Jeno and Mark just _had_ to take matters into their own hands. Mark's job was to hold Donghyuck back while Jeno ushered the other two as far away as possible, a hand clamped over their mouths to shut them up no matter how much he agreed with them).

"He thinks _The Dark Knight_ is a Marvel movie," Donghyuck rolls his eyes.

"Oh, _wow._ I mean," Jeno raises his eyebrows in amusement, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tries to stifle a laugh at the sight of Mark's steadily reddening cheeks, "that's _serious,_ Mark. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Exactly," Donghyuck deadpans. He crosses his arms at his chest with a prideful huff, paying no mind to the way Jeno winks at Mark with a cock of his brow. Mark gawks at Jeno and lightly kicks him under the table, earning a kick back against his shin as Jeno finally breaks into laughter.

"No, this guy obviously isn't _from_ here, Jaem—"

"How do you know that? Have you seen him? Have you _seen_ him, Jun?"

"What are they arguing about now?" Jeno sighs aloud, bracing himself for the argument that was to soon grace their sacred table.

Renjun slams his stack of textbooks on the table—not on purpose, his arms are just weak and he refuses to ever go to the gym with Jeno because he’s, Mark quotes, scared of getting _too_ buff—as Jaemin sits down and unwraps his burrito from its tinfoil casing, taking a big bite before continuing, "The security cameras _caught_ this guy. It’s all over the news and you can literally _see_ him. He's definitely human."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Jaemin," Mark tsks with a concerned shake of his head, handing him a napkin from his own lunch bag as Renjun retorts, "But what if he _is?"_

"Is this about the Martians again? Because I'm pretty sure we've debunked this before—"

"No, this is about _Spiderman,"_ Renjun cuts Jeno off with a crabby glance, though his face immediately softens as he happily accepts Jeno’s peace offering, an apple slice dipped in almond butter.

“I’m pretty sure Spiderman’s human, Junnie,” Mark pipes up with a nervous cough, his hand coming up to tug on the hairs on the nape of his neck, a nervous tick of his that’d started back when his mother had signed him up for a terrible two weeks of debate camp. 

“I agree,” Donghyuck affirms, smirking at the way Renjun immediately rolls his eyes. “Jaemin’s right, for once.”

_“Hey—”_

“Don’t talk with _food_ in your mouth, Jaemin! You’re going to choke!”

“Since when were you so concerned with Jaemin’s eating habits, Mark?” Jeno chuckles. “He always talks while he eats.”

“It’s how I stay efficient—”

 _"Look,"_ Donghyuck cuts Jaemin off. He pulls his laptop out of his backpack and snaps it open to reveal a scrappy Powerpoint presentation with spider clipart pasted in its center paired with huge, bolded, italicized, _and_ underlined multicolored text that reads _Spiderman: Hero or Menace? Human or Alien? Copyright Lee Donghyuck 2017._

"You made a _Powerpoint_ about this? Instead of working on our group project due in _three days—”_

"Yes, Renjun," Donghyuck cheekily grins, scrolling down to reveal a second slide decorated in blurry security camera stills of the man from the alleyway and a scrawny figure of what looked to be a teenage boy hovering over him. "I've figured him all out."

_Oh no._

"Donghyuck—"

"Hush, Mark, the adults are talking." Donghyuck shushes him with a press of his finger to his lips.

"I'm literally _older_ than you—"

"I think he's human. You can see it from the way his hair's all messed up like he just woke up and how he's kind of like, I don't know," Donghyuck zooms in with a click of his fingers, "he's like, cowering and standing up straight all at the same time. Like he's afraid, like he's— like he’s insecure about something. I don’t think aliens would stop to consider the consequences of their actions, Jun. If there’s anything we’ve learned from the cinematic masterpiece that is _Megamind—”_

"Wow, they really teach you all that in journalism?" Jeno asks, leaning in closer to stare at the overexposed security camera shot cropped to the corner of Donghyuck's screen. 

Mark's black hood had slipped off his head when he'd jumped, though his face, thankfully, couldn’t be seen in any of the photos that’d been published. He makes a mental note to check for cameras if _—if,_ not when—he decides to go for a night swing again. 

“I just think there’s something about this guy that we don’t know," Donghyuck replies with a shrug of his shoulders. “Like there’s something about him that he’s hiding. I mean,” Donghyuck chuckles, “other than the fact that he’s a literal superhero ripped straight from what you’d find in a Marvel movie. You know, I think Spiderman’s actually a great name for a superhero. I bet they’re _pissed_ they didn’t come up with the idea first.”

"You think he— you think he goes here?" Jeno asks with an excited quirk of his brow. “He’d be a great addition to the track team.”

“He’s a _superhero_ and you think he’d want to join the _track team?”_ Donghyuck snorts, wincing when Jeno swings a light punch at his arm. “Don’t you want to know where he’s from? Where he got his powers? What kind of experiments they did on him to turn him into a superhuman _mutant—”_

"I bet he _does_ go here," Jaemin interrupts with an eager nod. "I bet he's in high school, just like the rest of us. And downtown’s only a twenty minutes away from here, so I bet he even lives in our area—"

"Where'd you get all these photos, Donghyuck?" Mark suddenly interjects, his heart racing in his chest as their excited chatter comes to an abrupt halt. 

He can feel the tips of his ears burning hot under their curious stares, a silent prayer to the deities above to absolve him of any potential accusations that he knew more than he was letting on, and nervously chews on his bottom lip in a struggle to maintain his composure.

The conversation steers left without a hitch.

"Asked my dad. Perks of being the editor-in-chief's son, don't you think?" Donghyuck says with a proud smile.

"Okay, just because he _looks_ human doesn't mean he _is_ human. What kind of _human_ shoots _webs_ from their hands?" Renjun finally retorts. “I’d like to see you explain how natural selection led us from monkey to _spiderman.”_

“Spider monkeys exist, Jun,” Jeno points out, immediately cowering under Renjun’s fiery gaze.

"Don't you think we would've seen some kind of UFO if an alien arrived in _Midtown?"_ Jaemin argues, his mouth full from another bite of his burrito.

"Stop talking while _chewing,"_ Mark bites, the tone of his voice a bit sharper than intended.

"I'm _thorry."_

Mark slaps his hands to his face with a loud groan.

"What's gotten into you, Mark?" Renjun laughs, offering him a slice of his peeled orange. “It’s not that big of a deal. We’ll figure him out soon enough,” Renjun adds with a nonchalant shrug, a challenging cock of his brow towards Donghyuck, who only snickers in response. “I’m sure his UFO is invisible, though.”

Mark takes the orange slice with a polite grin that immediately morphs into a constipated frown, quickly stuffing it into his mouth before thumbing with the sleeves of his hoodie under the table, his eyes fixed on the blank wall opposite of where he sat.

 _I don’t want you to figure me out,_ Mark thinks. _I don’t want to know what’ll happen once you find out about what a freak I am._

"Nothing," Mark singsongs, forcing himself to look up with an empty smile plastered across his face. "I'm totally fine."

"Yeah _right,"_ Donghyuck scoffs, a teasing jab of his elbow into Mark's ribs as he shuts his laptop and sleeves it back into his backpack. "Mark thinks Batman is a Marvel character. There's _definitely_ something wrong with him."

“Have you figured out what you’re going to do for Young’s assignment?” Jeno asks. They make their way towards the track on the west end of campus by the student parking lot, the rubber soles of their shoes lazily dragging along the gravelly asphalt.

“I think I’ll end up going with the poem. You?”

“Probably the picture,” Jeno hums. “Jaemin has some experience with photo editing, so I might be able to bribe him into helping me.”

“You should probably just ask him to shoot for you then.”

“You know, I thought about it, but he’ll probably end up complaining about how I’m taking up all his precious study time,” Jeno says with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. “As if he needs it. _I’m_ the one with my grades on the line.”

Mark laughs, Jeno matching his grin. “Just tell him you’ll treat him to coffee and he’ll do anything.”

“I genuinely have no idea how his metabolism works. I think he drinks more coffee than water. That _can’t_ be healthy.”

“He probably knows what he’s doing,” Mark chuckles, staring down at the wild daisies growing out of the cracks in the hot blacktop as he walks alongside Jeno, their footsteps in sync as the hot sun scorches their napes. “He’s our resident doctor, after all.”

“Mark, do you _not_ remember the disaster that was finals week?”

Mark remembers. 

Every one of them remembers, though Mark is pretty sure that Jaemin blocked out the memory for his own sanity. There was no way to verify exactly how long Jaemin had stayed up that week, but Jeno estimated that Jaemin spent a good four days surviving solely off of Red Bulls and the food that Renjun forced down his throat while Donghyuck held him down. Sure, Jaemin probably could’ve spent those few precious minutes studying rather than sustaining himself, but the boys were just as stubborn as he was, and they weren’t about to allow him to cut the size of their circle down by one all because of a few AP classes. 

(“You need to _eat, you big doofus—”_

“If you think I’m going to waste my time _eating_ rather than _saving_ my Calculus grade, which, by the way, is currently sitting at a _dangerous 93.01,_ you’re sadly _mistaken—”_

“Renjun, get the bowl—”

“Let me go right this instant, you big meanies— _mmph—”_

“Jaemin, we are not letting you die over a stupid grade,” Mark sighed, arms crossed from where he stood by Jaemin’s swivel chair.

Jaemin grunted, a mouthful of rice stuffed into his right cheek as he retorted, “That’s not up to you to decide. Like I always say, you will only see an imperfect Na Jaemin transcript _over my_ —”

“Dead body, we _know,”_ Jeno replied with a roll of his eyes from the bed, legs slung over the side as he recorded the sight of Jaemin being held down by Donghyuck, Renjun throwing up deuces towards the camera before forcing another spoonful of rice into Jaemin’s mouth. The video still exists, somewhere—Jeno claimed he made a billion copies just so that he’d be able to blackmail Jaemin into taking care of himself one day.)

By the end of the week, Jaemin looked like a corpse, his hair an oily mess and his cheeks gaunt, eyes sunken into the dark circles earned from the trimester’s hardships. And once more, Jaemin scored himself another perfect transcript, as he always did. But the memory of what Jaemin looked like by the end of their sophomore year was pure nightmare fuel, one that Mark dreaded reliving. 

Mark shudders. “You’re right. I take that back.”

They slow their pace as they begin to approach the grassy knoll next to the locker rooms. Donghyuck’s already waiting for them, his back slumped against the wall as he stares intently at the explosions blowing up his phone, multicolored lights reflecting in his dark brown irises without even an upward glance to greet the two walking towards him. 

“We should probably give him some credit, though,” Jeno sighs, a fond roll of his eyes at Donghyuck before continuing, “If Jaem’s smart enough to somehow keep himself alive after all this time, he’ll probably be fine.”

Jeno looks over at Donghyuck, his grin morphing into a playful smirk. 

“Unlike this total _nin-com-poop,”_ Jeno emphasizes, punctuating each word with a loud stomp towards Donghyuck, who still refuses to look up, “who rarely ever finishes his assignments on time and still somehow manages to scrape by.”

Mark snorts, crossing his arms expectantly as he watches Jeno exaggerate each of his loud footsteps. Jeno starts lunging towards Donghyuck in a futile attempt to divert his attention from his screen, his long legs stretched into splits before he inevitably gives up with a sigh, teasingly bumping into Donghyuck on his way into the locker rooms and jolting him from his trance to cause his phone to slip out of his hands.

Mark sees it before it happens, sirens going off in his head just as Jeno’s shoulder makes contact with Donghyuck’s forearm. It’s like his limbs suddenly form a collective mind of their own, and Mark finds himself dashing forward just as Donghyuck’s phone slips through his fingers to land right into Mark’s palm, his fingers immediately curling around the warm metal before it can reach the ground with a loud _clang._

Then the rest of his body catches up, momentum catapulting him forward to crash his chest against Donghyuck’s. Their eyes widen in shock as it all plays out in slow motion, air knocked out of their lungs as Donghyuck’s arms come up instinctively to hold Mark steady.

“S-sorry—”

“You good, Mark?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, _hey.”_

Donghyuck tightens his hold around Mark’s waist, eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern as heat begins to creep along Mark’s skin to tint the tip of his ears a bright cherry red. Their faces are so close—too close, close enough for Mark to make out the small bumps of Donghyuck’s pores and the faint wrinkles in his pink, glossed lips. 

He’s staring. 

Mark realizes that he’s _staring,_ way too intently at the small brown mole just to the left of Donghyuck’s nose for it to be normal. Then time catches up with him, a hiccup jolting him awake from the hypnosis that was Donghyuck’s pretty mole just above the corner of his lips, reality smacking him in the face to remind him that he’s currently pressed flush against Donghyuck with his arms wrapped around his waist and his legs awkwardly splayed wide, the rubber soles of his Vans slipping along the gravel beneath his feet.

“I’m okay,” Mark stammers, pushing himself off of Donghyuck and stumbling backwards before catching himself, rapidly blinking as if it’d do anything to snap him out of what’d just happened. He shakes his head, steadying himself as he looks Donghyuck right in the eyes, his eyebrows furrowed in a concerning amount of concentration to keep the rest of his face level. “I’m good. Yep.”

His hand vibrates—Donghyuck’s phone almost slipping through his fingers just as his brain registers that he’s still holding it—and he blinks again, stuttering as he returns Donghyuck’s phone to him, “Here’s your phone.”

Donghyuck takes it from him, a single brow cocked in amused confusion, and holds the screen to his face after the moment passes, Mark forcing out an award cough as he looks away and toys with the hem of his hoodie.

 _“Damn it,_ I forgot about my doctor’s appointment,” Donghyuck groans, suddenly grabbing onto Mark’s sleeve and dragging him behind him as they make their way towards the student parking lot. “Come on, my mom’s going to kill me if we’re late _again.”_

The way back to Donghyuck’s place is a familiar one. A right turn at the edge of campus, a long trek down Glendale Lane, a few twists into their shared cul-de-sac that takes a solid ten minutes—five less than the usual time, but only because Donghyuck speed-walks for the first third of the way home—and then Mark finds himself standing by the wooden gate separating Donghyuck’s front yard from his neighbor’s lawn, gnomes galore in a sea of wild daisies and timothy grass. According to Donghyuck, his neighbor is a nice, friendly old man that rarely ever comes out of his home—he has a housekeeper that visits every day, Donghyuck insists—but Mark gets the creeps just by looking over at his rickety house, something that looked like it was built in the twenties and had never been touched since. 

The gnomes don’t help either, their blank, uncanny smiles sending shivers up Mark’s spine with every accidental glance their way. It’s like their eyes are _following_ him. He tried convincing Donghyuck to try and check to see if there were cameras in their eyes once, but Donghyuck argued that doing so was an “invasion of privacy” and that Mark was just being a “big baby.”

“Stop looking at the gnomes, you goof.”

“I can’t _help_ it, Hyuck. Their _eyes—”_

“Are fake. You can go check yourself—”

“But they’re _scary_ —”

“You can’t just accuse them of being scary when they’re just innocently sitting there!”

“I can and I will!”

“You’re helpless.”

“Shut up.”

“Never.”

Mark pouts, an unconscious reaction that always manages to show itself whenever Donghyuck teases him, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance as he stares down a short gnome with a white beard and a pointy red hat. The gnome’s also holding a shovel, but Mark doesn’t want to think about what he’s done with the stupid shovel, so he purposely ignores it.

He’s so busy staring down the awful gnome that he doesn’t register the faint itch on his nape, completely oblivious to Donghyuck slowly creeping behind him, and jumps three feet high with a hysterical shriek to match when Donghyuck’s warm breath tickles his ear in a low, smooth whisper: _“Boo.”_

“D-dude, what the _hell!”_

Donghyuck’s laughter echoes within his driveway, a hand clutching his waist as he bends in half and points at Mark’s sulking figure. Mark’s indignant pout grows, ears glowing red from the residual fear and creeping embarrassment. 

“Mark, you are _way_ too easy,” Donghyuck giggles, hiccups interrupting his sentence twice before he bends in half again to laugh at the way Mark clutches his arms at his chest and frowns.

“Am not!”

“Am too! You should’ve seen yourself! You jumped, like, five feet in the air!”

“Lee Donghyuck, I _told you_ we had to leave on time this morning— oh, hi Mark!”

Donghyuck twists around at the sound of his mother’s yelling, a scowl plastered on his face as he sighs and stomps over to the open passenger door of her old Toyota. He waves at Mark before he slides into his seat, backpack slung over his legs as he slams the door shut and mouths behind his tinted window: _Send help._

Mark is pretty sure the minivan is supposed to be white—either that, or Toyota came out with a new line of paints—but it’s been so long since he’s seen it out of Donghyuck’s garage that he can’t really be sure. Donghyuck’s mother often traveled up the hills for work, her clients living in huge mansions with unpaved, dusty roads that left her white car tinted brown for weeks on end before she’d finally bribe Donghyuck into washing it for her. It was honest work, Donghyuck reasoned—ten dollars a wash, all of which fueled Donghyuck’s gaming obsession (he prefers that word over _addiction,_ claiming that _obsession_ had more of a positive ring to it). 

Mark returns the wave with a teasing wrinkle of his nose, laughing when Donghyuck rolls down the window to blow him a raspberry as his mother backs out of the driveway.

“Say hi to your mother for me, okay sweetie?”

“I will! Nice to see you, Mrs. Lee!”

“Discord at seven!” Donghyuck yells behind him, and then his mother speeds off before Mark can utter another word. He’s pretty sure Donghyuck throws him a peace sign before he fades out of view, but knowing Donghyuck, there’s a solid chance it could’ve been the finger. 

Mark shakes his head and chuckles to himself as he makes his way down the curved sidewalk to his own house on the other side of the street, almost exactly opposite from Donghyuck’s front driveway, eggshell paint chipping off the wood lining his garage door. He thinks it’s funny that their houses are almost splitting images of one another, minus the fact that Donghyuck’s bedroom windows are constantly covered by the blackout curtains Mark bought him a few Christmases ago. 

“I’m putting your gift to good use!” Donghyuck had argued, laughing when Mark blushed from his own inability to come up with a good retort to Donghyuck’s vehement disdain for sunlight in his room. Donghyuck claims the darkness is “optimal gaming ambience,” whatever that means.

Mark’s window, on the other hand, is always open, the blinds drawn high to allow the early rays of the sun to wake him up every morning. He used to keep them down, but after a few consecutive tardies that resulted in threats of detention (Donghyuck offered to keep him company, but Mark knew it was just his way of getting out of study hall), Mark learned to depend on the sun to wake him up in conjunction with the loud blaring of his phone’s ringer in his ears. It’d come in handy plenty, especially on the weekends he’d forget to set his alarms for the coming Monday.

He turns back around, a fond glance towards Donghyuck’s window before his eyes zone in on the streak of Donghyuck’s room visible to the world, his curtains, for some reason, only pulled two-thirds of the way closed. There, on his bookshelf of figurines and other knick-knacks, is Donghyuck’s prized digital camera, half of its body dangling off of the wooden ledge sitting at least five feet from the floor.

He shouldn’t meddle. He _really_ shouldn’t meddle, given the fact that his neighbors probably have security cameras and would _definitely_ notice a teenage boy swinging through the air to land on the roof of Donghyuck’s house. It doesn’t help that the spider mutant of a vigilante has been on everyone’s minds lately—even his mother asked him about it the day the stories broke. Mark never sweat so much in his entire life.

But Donghyuck loves his camera. It’s what got him into journalism in the first place, a gift from his father for his eighth birthday, who promised that one day, Donghyuck would take over his position at the _Daily Bugle._ It’s his _baby,_ for crying out loud. Donghyuck wouldn’t let Mark touch it for a solid three months out of fear that Mark’s clumsiness would lead to an unsalvageable mess of silicon parts on his bedroom floor.

With his new powers, though, Mark doesn’t think he’s such a klutz anymore. And he feels a certain sense of duty now, neural synapses solidifying in his brain to convince him that it’s now his job to do what’s right, even if it puts him at risk. Because he cares about Donghyuck, and in extension, he cares about the camera dangling off of Donghyuck’s bookshelf, positioned to crash onto the floor at any given moment. 

Spiderman: Hero or Menace?

What’s a hero that can’t even bring himself to do something as simple as this? Is that all he is—a one-hit wonder meant to disappear into the void for good, never to be seen again? 

Mark doesn’t think he deserves to be Spiderman. The unease crawls under his skin like ravaging fire ants, a slow, merciless burn that engulfs him whole. He’s a teenage boy, not a man, one that started his junior year of high school with a sudden, strange ability to shoot webs from his wrists and climb walls like a lizard, one that had all sense of normalcy stripped from him without a say.

But with great power, Mark thinks, his eyes fixed on the cracks in the black cement of the road as he forces himself to come to terms with his new reality, comes great responsibility. 

If stepping into his newly-polished shoes as Spiderman is what it takes for him, for Donghyuck, for all of their friends and families to feel as though they have someone on their side, someone to vouch for them and keep them safe, someone to be their _hero_ —who is Mark to deny them? He’d want the same for himself, he realizes.

His decision makes itself. A faint breeze tangles through his hair, whirling up to ruffle the curtains of Donghyuck’s window, and with a gentle kiss, nudges Donghyuck’s camera from where it sits.

Mark doesn’t think—he just _shoots,_ webs firing from his left wrist as he watches the wrinkles in Donghyuck’s black curtains grow deeper with the pull of the wind, and he lands on Donghyuck’s roof with a thud. He shoves the window open with his right arm, the knuckles of his left hand growing white as he clings onto the windowsill and watches the baby blue camera fall to its death, and, with a snap of his wrist, saves it with a cushion of webbing to pad its fall.

He lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, tension released from his muscles before he realizes that he’s currently clinging onto the side of a two-story house in broad daylight and jumps right off, a perfect landing onto Donghyuck’s front lawn as if he’d been standing there the entire time. 

_Perhaps all that practice wasn’t such a bad idea,_ Mark smiles, dusting off his hands before waltzing over to his own driveway, pleased with himself for the sudden improvement in coordination. The bite probably had something to do with it as well, but he wasn’t about to let some supernatural wound take all the credit for _his_ hard work. _He_ was the one who spent an entire week sneaking out past his curfew and waking up with sore muscles he didn’t even know he had. 

His keys jingle as he skips along the cobblestone path to his front door, and he barely steps foot into the foyer before he hears his mother yell from the kitchen, _“Mark, could you bring this over to Auntie Mae?”_

Then he hears his sister run down the stairs, bracing himself for the inevitable shove that comes his way as she yells, “Tag! You’re it!” and dashes off into the downstairs bathroom, locking herself in as she always did. Cheater.

Mark snorts, making a mental note to camp out in the living room once he gets back, then pads into the kitchen to grab the carefully-wrapped box sitting on the marble countertop, his mother’s back to him as she skillfully dices a few scallions for what smells like her famous loaded tteokbokki.

“Dinner smells good, mom,” Mark calls behind him, a wave of his hand at nobody in particular. His mom always gets so invested in whatever she’s making—she refuses to let anyone step into her kitchen whenever she’s in chef mode, so Mark knows to leave her to it. He can’t complain, anyway, seeing that he doesn’t have to go through the pain of peeling garlic or separating egg yolks from whites anymore. He and his mother alike learned their lesson after the one Mother’s Day he tried cooking for her—the kitchen was covered in all-purpose flour (that took them hours to clean) and her pancakes had eggshells in every bite, a painful experience for the both of them.

He makes his way back down the cobblestone path without bothering to lock the door behind him, hoping that his sister doesn’t realize that he’s gone and lock him out on purpose, and turns the corner to head to Aunt Mae’s place, a quaint 50’s-style home outfitted with a white picket fence that protected her prized garden of tulips, gardenias, sunflowers, and a bunch of other flora Mark didn’t remember the names of. He used to head over to Aunt Mae’s a lot more often when he was younger, his assigned job to fiercely guard her gardening tools from Donghyuck’s mischievous games of hide-the-shovel-from-Mark (which he often ended up winning, of course. Mark would have to beg him to give the shovel back only to find that it’d been hidden in plain sight the entire time). They’d leap off the bus at the same time and dash from the stop sign at the end of her street in a race to see who’d be able to greet her first—Donghyuck would always win, though Mark likes to argue that it’s only because he let him.

It’s not until he’s standing in front of the white gate that used to stop at his shoulders, now barely tall enough to reach his waist, that he realizes that his heart is hammering out of his chest, his grip on the cloth handles of Aunt Mae’s gift tight enough to whiten his knuckles, his arms shaking from the sudden bout of anxiety coursing through his body.

He hasn’t seen her since the incident. And while he knows it’s not because she’s purposely avoiding him—she’s rarely out in the gardens to greet him and Donghyuck on their way to school now, given that the weather is growing colder and Mark knows she prefers to spend autumn mornings in her sunroom on the other side of her house—he still feels a sense of fear as he unlocks the gate and takes his first step onto her property, his mind running a hundred miles a minute with thoughts of _What do I say? Do I apologize? What do I apologize for? Does she think I’m a monster now?_

He thinks about turning back, but his vacillation is what pushes him towards her front door—he’s too busy fussing over what to say and how to say it and what to do if she turns him away that he completely misses the crack in the middle of the stone walkway and lodges his foot into it, his body hurtling forward before he’s able to register that he is, in fact, falling. But his mind is what saves him, arms coming forward out of instinct to pad his body as he lands flat, his nose a mere inch off the ground. The box, somehow, is also saved, unmarred from the force of gravity pulling it further into the ground as it lands to the side of the limestone path.

Then he hears the door unlock and scrambles to hoist himself back up, barely able to dust his pants off before Aunt Mae scoops him into her arms and hugs him tight without another word.

“Wh— Aunt Mae—”

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Mark.”

Perhaps it’s the sincerity in her words, or perhaps it’s because she’s the only one that knows about who Mark really is, what he’s become, and can still find it in her heart to love and care for him in the same way she always did before he became Spiderman, that sends a javelin through Mark’s aching heart, his body crumpling in her hold as tears begin to well in his eyes and fall to stain her knitted sweater. 

It’s cold—the breeze begins to pick up, ruffling through his hair and chafing the tip of his nose—but all Mark can feel is warmth, finding it in the comfort of Aunt Mae’s arms as she soothes her hand down his back, a slow, smooth rhythm to remind him that everything will be okay; that even if he finds himself overwhelmed, even if his world has been turned upside-down, he can rely on her to be a constant in his life, his force of gravity tugging him back down to earth. 

She’s still Aunt Mae, the woman that babysat him when his mother was juggling three jobs after his father had disappeared without a trace, the woman that would help him through his math homework with his baby sister in her arms, the woman that would always bake his favorite desserts on the weeks she knew he’d be stressed out from exams. She’s as much his parent as his own mother is by blood.

“Oh, darling,” Aunt Mae coos, wiping his tears away as he sniffles and pulls his lips taut, only for them to quiver again when he finally meets her calm, honest eyes. “You must’ve been having such a hard time.”

The tears keep falling, even when she reaches for his hands to smooth her thumbs along his knuckles and guides him inside. Mark realizes that the package, the reason he came over in the first place, is still outside, and stammers an awkward apology before dashing out to grab it, returning with wide eyes and a flustered grin. Aunt Mae laughs, not at him, but at how in her eyes, he’s still the same Mark who carries with him an endearing boyhood and innocence that has never faded with time. To her, Mark is still the same boy who gushes sweet compliments in thanks for all the pastries she’s ever made for him, the same boy who still possesses a slight clumsiness that makes her want to love and protect him for as long as she can, the same boy who carries his heart on his sleeve, who saved her life a week ago. 

“My mom wanted to give you this,” Mark says, his voice breaking at the end of the sentence to send a dark flush across his cheeks. He hands the box to her, both arms jutted out in a robotic motion to make her laugh again, and she takes the gift to set it on her glass dining table.

“Sit, dear,” she offers Mark a chair, getting up to walk over to her closet and pull out a box of her own, a fluorescent orange Nike shoe box that refused to stay closed, its lid forced onto it with cheap packaging tape. 

Mark takes a seat and stares at the box in confusion, rubbing his slightly swollen eyes as Aunt Mae joins him at the table and pushes the box towards him. 

“What’s this, Aunt Mae?”

“Before you open it, I just want to remind you, Mark,” Aunt Mae says, her voice full and sincere, “that you’ll always have me. That no matter what, I will be here to listen and support you. Do you understand me?”

His eyes flit from the box to meet her steady gaze, the same one she used to use on him whenever he would trample over her daisies in the backyard and blatantly lie about Donghyuck doing it afterwards. This time, though, it’s not a look meant to reprimand him, but one to convey the seriousness in her words, in her promises. He returns her gaze with a timid nod and a soft murmur, “Thank you.”

“You’ll always be Mark Lee to me. Your new powers, Mark,” she pauses, mulling over the words before they leave her tongue, “they’re just a gift from the universe to show everyone how special you really are.”

“But I don’t _want_ to be special,” Mark finds himself blurting, embarrassment creeping up his cheeks once he realizes what he’s said. He should be grateful, he tells himself. It’s not every day that the universe bestows upon you a set of superhuman abilities—but Mark didn’t ask for them. He’s just a teenager, a boy navigating confusing childhood crushes and working his way through the complexities of high school and—

“I’m afraid the universe thinks otherwise, sweetheart.”

Aunt Mae isn’t making fun of him, isn’t belittling him for his indignance. Her voice is tinged with the same pity he feels for himself, and though he knows she doesn’t understand what it feels like to suddenly feel alien in your own body, her sympathy is enough. 

“I know,” he mumbles. When he meets her eyes again, he finds a sense of calm, one that reminds him that amidst the storm whirling around him, he can always find her to rely on. Maybe he doesn’t have to be a hero, at least not yet; maybe he can allow himself to just take it slow, to go with what feels right. If Aunt Mae knows about who he is, who he _really_ is, and can look at him without any expectations or pressure, perhaps Mark can do the same for himself.

She’s the one who verbalizes his sentiments, gesturing towards the neon orange box perched on the table in front of him. 

“I don’t expect you to be doing what the police are being paid to do, Mark,” she begins. “And I’m certainly not telling you to go out there and do reckless things. But in case you ever go out again, I want you to be safe.”

He reaches for the box but stops himself, unsure of what to expect when he opens it. But Aunt Mae urges him forward, a kind, patient smile pulling at her lips as she nods towards the box, and when he finally pulls the lid off, he finds himself staring at the image of a spider, white thread embroidered on a cobalt blue background. He gasps in shock, his fingers delicately tracing along the thin, knobby legs that extend from the spider’s elongated body, before he looks up at Aunt Mae with wide eyes.

“What is this?”

“You know, I thought about it for a while,” Aunt Mae chuckles, reaching over to pull the hoodie out of the box and lay it flat on the table. “They call you the Spiderman now, don’t they?”

“I guess they do.”

“I guess you can call it your super suit,” Aunt Mae chuckles, “I don’t think Johnny will miss this.” She fondly traces her thumb along the thick fabric and looks at Mark again before continuing, “I think the colors suit you. I didn’t want anything too dark in case someone mistakes you as something else.”

She doesn’t have to say it for Mark to understand the implications of her words—one wrong move in the wrong clothing in the wrong place and he could find himself dead.

Mark moves to try it on. The shoulders lay a bit lower than his usual jackets are fitted, and the hood covers a bit more of his face than he’s used to, but it’s a comfortable fit. He also finds a pair of plain blue basketball shorts in the box as well, who he assumes belonged to Johnny at one point—he remembers Aunt Mae telling him about her son who’d left for Illinois while Mark was still in elementary school—and a pair of black leggings lining the bottom of the box. An entire superhero getup straight from all the comics Donghyuck loved to ramble on about.

“I don’t— I don’t really know what to say,” Mark fumbles, Aunt Mae responding with a kind crinkle of her eyes. He lifts the leggings out of the box and holds them to his legs—they seem to be perfect for his height, he notices—and then carefully folds them to place back into the box.

“I just thought those would help for more strenuous activities,” Aunt Mae says with a wink, “rather than those tight jeans you kids wear nowadays.”

Mark laughs with her, a grateful smile plastered on his face as he marvels at his gifts. And before he’s able to thank her, to break into a long monologue about how much he owes her for everything and more, Aunt Mae cuts him off with a sharp, “And don’t you think about thanking me for this, mister. It’s the least I could do after you saved my—”

Mark opts to pull her into a tight hug instead, one that she returns with equal force, her arms constricting around his ribs in a bear hug he's grown to love. He murmurs a soft thank you anyway, giggling when Aunt Mae pinches his cheeks with a wrinkle of her nose.

“You’re a good kid, Mark,” she says as she walks him to the door, the sun beginning to set behind her home to cast an orange glow into her dining room. “Remember that, okay?”

“Okay,” Mark replies with a bright grin, tightly hugging the orange Nike box to his chest. “I hope you enjoy whatever it is my mom told me to bring over.”

“I’m sure I will,” she calls after him as he makes his way down the limestone pathway. “Say hi to Minji for me, honey!”

“Goodnight, Aunt Mae!”

“Goodnight, Mark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm. mark forgot to close the window. (╯°o°)╯
> 
> thank you so much for reading! ♡ [twt](https://www.twitter.com/hyckfairy/) [cc](https://curiouscat.me/hyckfairy)  
> 


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